Jane Austen’s First Love (28 page)

Immediately after we finished eating, I met him in the first-floor passage and gave him my pages. As this was my only copy of the story, he promised to take good care of it.

“I will read it as soon as I am able, and let you know what I think.”

The day was equally as full of activity as the one which had preceded it. The rehearsal ran very long, and many scenes had to be run twice; but according to my brother Edward, it went well, and he proclaimed himself proud of us.

“Our final rehearsal tomorrow will be in full dress,” announced he to the cast before we broke for dinner. “I hope you will all spend your free time working on your lines. I would rather not have to prompt anybody during the actual performance!”

At dinner, I was delighted when Edward Taylor took a seat beside me. In
sotto voce,
he said,

“I read it through—twice.”

My heart began to race. I glanced around the table to ensure that no one else was listening, and whispered: “And?”

To my dismay, further discourse was impossible, as Sir Brook began to talk to the assembly at large, and the food was subsequently served. An opportunity to continue our conversation did not arise for many hours, for there was still a great deal of work to do regarding the play. When darkness fell, most of the household dispersed or retired, leaving my sister and me alone in the library, working on the fairies’ costumes. Edward Taylor entered and, finding us thus engaged, sank down onto a chair opposite us with a smile, and said:

“Alone at last.”

I laughed nervously, renewed anxiety knotting my stomach as I awaited his verdict. He glanced cautiously at Cassandra, as if unsure whether or not it was prudent to speak.

“My sister has already read my story, Mr. Taylor, and given me her opinion; she is the only other person I felt comfortable entrusting it to.”

“Ah. Very good.” From his coat pocket, he retrieved my pages.

Continuing my sewing, and trying not to betray the intensity of my interest, I said, “Pray tell me. What did you think?”

“I think you have a way with words, Jane. It is a very funny story.”

I felt such relief as can scarcely be described. “Funny in a
good
way, I hope?”

“Yes indeed. I must have laughed out loud a dozen times. You had so many amusing lines—” (glancing through the pages) “—such as this part here, when Mr. Watts comments on the sizeable settlements he is offering Mary as part of their marriage agreement, and she mumbles out: ‘What’s the use of a great jointure, if men live forever?’”

“I had a good laugh at that, too,” remarked Cassandra, chuckling.

“I loved it when her mother negotiated the pin-money, as if she were selling a mare at market! But best of all is Mary’s long list of expectations—what was it? Ah yes, here: Horses, fine clothes, jewels, servants, a theatre to act plays in, a blue carriage spotted with silver (hilarious!), and the mathematically impossible task of spending all four seasons in different places, and
the rest of the year at home
giving balls. Ha!”

I set down my needlework, thrilled by his enthusiasm. “I do enjoy poking fun at people’s foibles and exposing their weaknesses.”

“That you did, and quite brilliantly I think.”

“Thank you. I
hoped
to be amusing, Mr. Taylor; but I admit, I also hoped to do more than that—to inject the silliness with some
significance—
to present characters who we can recognise and sympathise with.”

“And so you did. Without naming names—we both know people who behave and sound very much like Mary Stanhope and her mother.” He glanced at me slyly, and we both laughed. Hesitantly, he added: “Would you be offended, however, if I made one small criticism of the work?”

“Not at all; please go ahead.”

“There is one sentence which I believe did not fit in.”

“One sentence? Is that all?” I laughed. “What sentence is that?”

“Here, when Mary describes the jewels she expects. She asks for ‘pearls as large as those of the Princess Badroulbadour in the fourth volume of the
Arabian Nights
, and Rubies, Emeralds, Toppazes, Sapphires, Amythists, Turkey stones, Agate, Beads, Bugles, and Garnets.’—you go on and on. It adds an element of buffoonery which is absent in the rest of the story, and should be truncated, I believe.”

“Oh! Thank you for pointing that out. I was falling back into my old ways with
that
line.”

“I agree, that line is a bit too silly for this story,” interjected Cassandra, who was still dutifully stitching away, “because your characters feel so real here; but that being said, Jane, I cannot help but think that you are very harsh on poor Mary.”

“Poor Mary?” cried Edward Taylor. “Do not tell me you feel sorry for her? She is very weak, and her motives for marrying are all wrong.”

“True,” answered Cassandra, “and yet still I sympathise with her. Marriage is, for most women, the only possible way to avoid poverty—to have a house and carriage of our own, and spending money of our own. It is not pleasant to think of negotiating for such things, but I can understand why
some
women might feel it necessary to do so.”

His eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I never gave the subject a single thought before, but now that you mention it—was that your point, Miss Jane? To call attention to this very dilemma?”

“It was. In Mary’s efforts to secure a future for herself, she takes everything to an extreme—”

“And becomes ridiculous in the process.”

“Yes! Exaggeration, in my opinion, is the very definition of parody.”

“Brilliant. You have found a clever way to deliver a message, while being thoroughly entertaining.” Edward Taylor quietly applauded.

I could not remember when I had ever felt so happy.

“It is wonderful,” continued he, “when one’s truest passion is not something which has been forced upon you by your family, but something unique and particular which you discover for yourself.” A little silence ensued, and I knew he was thinking about his own thwarted desires and passions. At length, he added, “I hope you will continue to write.”

“I intend to; but I am aware that I am but a fledgling at this art. I long to write an actual novel! But usually when I begin such an enterprise, I lose my way and cannot think how to complete it.”

“You will learn how in time,” said Cassandra.

“Indeed you will, Miss Jane. You must learn by study and by doing.”

“By study and by doing?” repeated I.

“It is the way I learned to play the violin. Under my masters’ tutelage, I studied the music of the great composers, then listened to that music played by the world’s best violinists at concerts across Germany and Italy. I developed my own skills by beginning with short pieces, eventually moving my way up to longer and more difficult ones. I would imagine it is the same with writing. You have already made an excellent beginning, Miss Jane. You read; you write short works. This is your school. I say: read all you can, and then write, write, write!”

His advice excited me. For the first time, I felt that I had a direction: a path or plan which might lead to me improving my skills as a writer. I determined from that moment forth to follow it.

I
awoke on the 23rd of June full of hope, excitement, and nervous anticipation. It was Midsummer’s Eve, the day of our performance, and also Charles’s twelfth birthday. At breakfast, we paid tribute to him with his favourite lemon cake. My mother gave Charles a very smart blue coat which she had remade from my brother Frank’s, and Cassandra and I presented him with a set of handkerchiefs embroidered with his initials. To my surprise, Edward Taylor also gave him a gift: his small silver folding knife, which Charles had seen and admired on a previous occasion. Charles was pleased to no end.

Mr. and Mrs. Knight returned to Goodnestone that morning, happy and anxious to see our production. The remainder of the morning was a beehive of activity, as we endeavoured to get everything ready for the start time of two o’clock. The two Edwards oversaw the final placement of the chairs for the audience, which Lady Bridges made them rearrange twice. As it was to be a day-time performance, no candles were needed; the drapes and shutters on the tall windows were left open, flooding the room with summer light. I went over lines with those harried members who felt the need for such attention, and Edward Taylor calmed those who exhibited a sudden case of nerves.

“If you forget a line,” Edward Taylor reassured them, “do not worry: simply take a deep breath and clear your mind. The words will come to you.”

Cassandra and my mother made the final adjustments to everyone’s clothing. The housemaids gathered armfuls of fresh flowers, leaves, and vines from the garden, and with help from the cast, a good three hours were spent dutifully attaching the garden’s bounty to all the fairies’ head-dresses.

I was particularly fond of my own costume, for my mother and sister had fashioned it from Lady Bridges’s emerald-green silk, and covered it over with fabric leaves and real bird feathers in many colours. I braided my long hair and pinned it up around my head, and once adorned by my wreath of fresh leaves, I considered myself to be a very fine Puck indeed. Now, I could only hope that my acting should live up to the weight of the role itself!

At half-past one, the actors, attired in all their finery (and looking truly splendid) gathered in the green-room, most of them chattering excitedly. The child fairies and attendants chased each other around the chamber until my brother Edward gently encouraged them to stop. Not everybody shared the same enthusiasm: Thomas looked as pale as death with anxiety, and Frederic likewise appeared so nervous, I worried that he might be sick at any moment. Four other members of the company—Fanny, Mr. Cage, Mr. Deedes, and Sophia—sat silently apart in the four separate corners of the room, distracted and preoccupied. I took this to be a sound thing, for their roles were substantial; I would also have preferred, before the performance, to remain quietly on my own, to go over my lines in my head.

A few crises were aborted: little Sidney Payler’s wings required reattaching at the shoulder; Elizabeth insisted that several withered flowers in her head-dress be replaced with fresh ones; and most alarming of all, Edward Taylor’s donkey ears had mysteriously gone missing; a frantic search ensued, and the missing article was thankfully discovered intact behind a sofa.

I soon heard the arrival of carriages without, and a few minutes more brought the sound of activity to the theatre beyond. Unable to restrain myself, I slipped into the central hall, partially opened a connecting door, and peeked through, to observe Lady Bridges talking animatedly as she ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Payler, and Admiral and Mrs. Fielding, who took seats alongside Mr. and Mrs. Knight. My mother, finished with her costuming duties, now excused herself to join the spectators. Our cast was so large, I had worried that we should surely outnumber the audience; but moments later all the servants began to arrive, and as all excitedly took their seats, the room began to look quite full.

My brother Edward urged everyone in the green-room to be quiet, and a solemn silence followed, causing the tension in the chamber to rise yet higher. I was wild with excitement. We had all worked very hard to usher this play into being over the past twelve days. The occupation had been one of the greatest and most fulfilling pleasures I had ever known. Now, at last, we were to perform before an audience!

At two o’clock exactly, Sir Brook welcomed everyone; and then the curtain parted.

The play opened inauspiciously. Thomas Payler faltered badly through his first three speeches, and as I overheard this slow and awkward beginning from my position behind the scenes, my cheeks warmed with embarrassment; but Edward Taylor whispered in my ear,

“Do not distress yourself, Miss Jane. It will get better. And it is only family and friends out there—and servants who have probably never seen a play. They will be thrilled with whatever we do.”

I gave him a grateful look and felt more composed. The scene
did
soon improve, for Hermia, Lysander, and Helena were quite marvellous; and as the performance continued, the key performers were everything I had hoped they would be. The first craftsmen’s scene was amusing, with Edward Taylor squeezing every laugh out of the audience which the playwright had intended. Frederic, true to form, mangled his only line in the scene; what should have been, “Have you the lion’s part written? pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study,” was delivered as follows:

Have you. The—the part. The lion’s part! Written?

I pray! Give it. Me. I am slow. Thank you.

I smiled to myself, realising that this mutilation of the Bard’s words did not matter in the least, for the meaning was clear enough, and the performance was perfectly in character—for Snug was, after all, “slow of study.”

Suddenly, it was Act II—and time for my entrance. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears, I thought I should not be able to hear my own speech. Cassandra gave my hand a squeeze, and Edward Taylor winked at me encouragingly; then I was striding onto the stage from one side, while Marianne entered at another, and uttering my first line:

How now, spirit! whither wander you?

To my mortification, my voice broke on the third word, and I was obliged to clear my throat to pronounce the remainder. Marianne sweetly made her speech, and I crossed to her as we had rehearsed; but I felt wooden and awkward. In all my previous experience of theatre at Steventon, my parts had been small, the audience even smaller. It had been one thing to rehearse
here
with no one except the other players watching; I was now very conscious of the presence of the audience—I could not help glancing out at them. Marianne ended her first speech:

Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone.

Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.

I knew I was obliged to respond with
my
first real speech; but the sea of countenances before me was so disconcerting, that I could not remember my line! I froze, in a panic. A brief and horrible silence succeeded. My gazed landed on my mother, who was staring at me with a worried expression.
Her
condemnation I could not take; very quickly, I repeated to myself the verbal antidote which Edward Taylor had given the others to calm their nerves:
take a deep breath. Clear your mind. The words will come to you
.

To my relief, they did:

The King doth keep his revels here to-night;

Take heed the Queen come not within his sight . . .

The rest of my speech flowed forth, perfect and unhurried; I invested my delivery the way I had rehearsed it, with all the verve, animation, and good humour I could muster.

When Oberon and Titania entered with their train of fairy attendants, the audience
ooohed
and
aaahed
at the lovely costumes, and appeared thrilled as the action unfolded. I particularly enjoyed my moments acting opposite my brother Edward, for he was the personification of the King of the Fairies, and I had begun to feel truly Puckish.

Although some lines were dropped, some entrances were late, and some changes of scenery were executed awkwardly (a chair from the duke’s palace unnecessarily found itself in the forest on one occasion), I do not think the audience noticed. Sir Brook had so little to do, that he sat out in the audience (in full costume) for the bulk of the performance, and would have missed his only other cue, had I not managed to overtly signal his attention.

At one point, Mr. Deedes, generally of such a sunny disposition, left the stage frowning and shaking his head with agitation, which I deduced to be dissatisfaction with his own performance; and during another scene, in which Lysander avows his love for Helena, I heard a gasp of irritation from Fanny, who was watching in the wings, and thought I might have seen a tear in her eye. It proved to me what an accomplished actress Fanny was, for so invested was she in the role of Hermia
,
that even off the stage, she felt all the emotion of the character she was inhabiting. And with what deep emotion and fierce anger did she invest her challenge to Helena to a fight! Fanny’s fit of anguish and jealousy was so keenly executed, as to be worthy of the London stage.

Everyone rose to the occasion. Cassandra was a fine Hippolyta, Elizabeth was a beautiful and seductive Titania, and the craftsmen were just as bumbling as one would wish. Thomas warmed to his part and got through it with a certain aplomb, and even Frederic eventually managed to do himself credit with a minimum of prompting, his very slowness adding to the humour of the character (his each and every line met with applause from his delighted mother).

Edward Taylor was (as expected) hilarious, and indisputably the star of the show. Charlotte played a truly lovely Thisbe to his Pyramus, investing her death scene with such an element of woe, as to raise it above comedy and bring a tear to many a watching eye. I was rewarded for my own efforts with laughter from the audience at the appropriate, key moments. I had never had such a part, had never
been
a part of such an exciting performance before!

All too soon, the play ended. The audience rose to its feet and applauded. As we all took our bows, the feeling in the air was electric; I looked out at the delighted expressions of our admirers, and knew I was experiencing something very special, which for the rest of my life I should never forget.

Afterwards, the spectators mingled with the cast, exchanging hugs and kisses and laudatory remarks all around. Mrs. Fielding was beside herself with joy at the accomplishment of her son. Everybody remarked with astonishment on Charlotte’s performance: what a wonder was she! Who could have guessed that Charlotte, normally so quiet and reserved, was such a capable actress! Mrs. Watkinson Payler behaved as proudly as though she were the queen of England, reminding everyone that “the play could not have been done without the
Paylers’
involvement; and were not they all fine actors, every last one of them?”

Praise was heaped upon my brother Edward for his directing efforts, which he accepted modestly, quick to point out the many contributions which I and Edward Taylor had made. My mother and Cassandra were pleased to accept acclaim for designing the costumes, but admitted that the entire cast had helped with their construction. Lady Bridges made so many self-congratulatory statements, as to seemingly take credit for the entire production herself.

A half-hour passed in such a manner, before I happened to notice that Fanny and Mr. Cage were not amongst the company. It occurred to me, that in all this happy display of feeling, I did not recall observing them anywhere. When had they left? Where had they gone? Why had they not remained to accept the congratulations that were their due? I made inquiries, but no one seemed to have any idea what had become of them. At last, when I applied to the youngest children, Harriot said:

“Fanny walked out of the room as soon as the play was over. She had a very dark look on her face.”

“Did she?” replied I. “And what of Mr. Cage? Did you see where he went?”

“I saw him,” answered little George Bridges. “He left right after Fanny.”

Nothing more had been seen nor heard of the pair. I thought it strange that they should vanish at the very moment of our triumph, and wondered what it might mean; but I had little time to consider the matter, as I became immediately embroiled in the business which always attends the end of a theatrical production. A hundred details required our immediate attention: there were the costumes and properties to be gathered up, clothing to be changed, and furniture to be cleared away; and all must be accomplished before the Midsummer’s Eve celebratory dinner, after which, all were invited to stay for the bonfire, to be held after dark.

Our company of players were all exhausted when we at last sat down to dine. Fanny and Mr. Cage had still not made an appearance—and now, inexplicably, Sophia was also among the missing. Lady Bridges insisted that there was nothing to worry about; the lovers no doubt desired some private time after all the hubbub of the performance, and Mr. Cage, being a very proper gentleman, must have requisitioned Sophia as their chaperone. This seemed to be a reasonable assessment of the situation; however, I overheard her ladyship quietly ask one of the footmen to see if he could discover what had become of the absent parties. He returned some ten minutes later, and from his apologetic look, and the frown on Lady Bridges’s countenance which met his whispered answer, I deduced that his inquiries had not met with success.

The table cloth had just been removed, and the dessert served, when a hurried footfall was heard in the passage, and Sophia burst into the room, her eyes filled with tears. Mr. Deedes leapt to his feet and pulled out the empty chair beside him, but Sophia moved directly to her father’s side and stopped there distractedly, seemingly too overcome to speak.

“Sophia,” said Sir Brook with deep concern, “what is the matter?”

“Oh, Papa!” responded she softly and brokenly. “It is too horrible for words. I was worried about Fanny and went looking for her. I found her walking in the park, weeping. She—” Leaning down, she whispered something quietly in his ear.